


On The Other Side

by Waning_Grace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Big Bang 2017, Dean Being Dean, Gen, Homeless Castiel, Human Castiel, Season/Series 09 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waning_Grace/pseuds/Waning_Grace
Summary: When Dean kicks Cas out of the bunker with no more than the clothes on his back and a shitty explanation what is the former angel to do? Newly human, and now homeless, will Castiel be able to survive on the streets by himself? Part of the Castiel Big Bang 2017!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is at last, my entry for the Castiel Big Bang!

_“Cas, man, look…” Dean starts, his voice low and rough, green eyes full of regret as they met Castiel’s. “It’s not that I don’t want you here but Sam is—“ and just like that, at the sound of the younger Winchester’s name Castiel stops listening because he knows there’s no point to continue. He may not be an angel anymore but that doesn’t mean he’s become stupid; Dean may not come outright and say it but the implication is clear—he’s kicking Castiel out of the bunker despite the fact he's just gotten here._

 

_Bile rises in his gorge and the former angel finds he must swallow hard to force it back down again even as his mind is swirling. A veritable tsunami of worries crop up in his mind—where will he go? What is he supposed to do? How can Dean simply cast him aside like so much refuse after all that he’s done for him? The heavy feeling of betrayal churns in his guts with nausea and for the space of several moments Castiel loses himself in the new sensations of his now-human body, caught adrift like a ship tossed at sea. Dean is oblivious, doggedly continuing on with whatever broken explanation he's trying to feed Castiel if the way his lips keep moving is any indication even though Cas is long past listening to it. There’s a part of him that is hardly surprised—where Dean is concerned Sam will always come first yet the knowledge does nothing to ease the ache inside._

 

_It takes a few more moments to compose himself, to try to remember that he was once a commander of a garrison and far beyond something as petty as simple emotion. It doesn't help much; if anything it just twists the knife in a little deeper to remember all that he’s lost but there’s no time to dwell on anything now. He can break down when he's gone from here. Taking a steadying breath Castiel forces himself to focus again, his face carefully betraying nothing of his own inner torment as he spies the impatience starting to brew behind the overlaying guilt in those familiar green eyes. While Dean's finally trailed off of whatever it was he was saying he looks as uncomfortable as Castiel currently feels and belatedly it occurs to him that perhaps Dean doesn’t want him gone and he lets the thought warm him for a moment._

 

_Silence stretches between them before the moment is broken as they each look away before Dean finally cracks under the straining weight of the tension that rushes in to fill it's place. “This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” he confesses, voice full of regret and something Castiel can’t identify. “But Sammy’s my brother and you gotta understand I gotta do what I can to save him.” Dean sounds dangerously close to pleading and more than anything else that alone firms Castiel’s resolve._

 

_“It’s okay, Dean.” He says quietly though they both know it’s far from not. As it stands things are as far from 'okay' as they ever have been and they both know it. The weight of things left unsaid, left misunderstood hang like an anvil above them both because no matter his agreement to the contrary, Castiel still doesn't understand. Oh, he gets just fine that he's no longer welcomed here despite the journey it took him to get here, but the reasoning behind it is another story. “I understand that you must take care of Sam.” He tells the hunter, mouth running on autopilot as he begins to slowly back his way towards the bunker door. “I apologize for intruding on you.” The words are quiet, firm, yet on the inside Castiel can feel himself breaking. He needs to get away before his carefully constructed mask begins to give way and quickens his pace._

 

_Behind him he can hear Dean shout “Cas!” in that same desperate tone as before yet he forces himself to keep going. There’s the sounds of footsteps behind him—presumably Dean—but Castiel’s a man on a mission and he doesn’t stop until he’s finally free of the bunker’s confines and the heavy clang of the mental door slamming shut behind him finally rams the truth home: He’s well and truly on his own._

 

_The tears don’t start to fall until he’s halfway down the dirt road leading into town._

 

_Dean doesn’t follow him._


	2. Chapter 2

That terrible night had been nearly a week ago now, Castiel reflects as he huddles deeper into his stolen hoodie and wishes not for the first time that he still had Jimmy’s familiar coat. It would have been warmer against the autumn chill perhaps, but like every other piece of familiarity in his life the coat is long gone. It's rather ironic to think about; as an angel Castiel had never needed to concern himself with temperatures, his Grace had regulated his vessel against such and until he fell Cas had never truly understood the concept of being cold like he is now. It’s quite unlike anything he’s ever felt with the way it seeps into his clothes and burrows under his skin straight down to his bones and despite the way it makes him shiver and shake he can’t help but wonder if he’d enjoy the sensation in another situation.

 

Around him a breeze blows through rattling the dry leaves upon the ground and leaves Castiel shivering harder in its wake. _What’s the point on reflecting about what you’ve lost?_ Castiel thinks bitterly to himself as he slouches down until he’s nearly horizontal, his legs sticking out awkwardly as his head falls back against the weathered wood of the park bench underneath him. _It can’t do you any good now._ Far overhead a bird cries out as it wheels on outstretched wings through the sky and Castiel chokes on the sob rising in his throat. I can’t do this! He thinks desperately, shutting his eyes as if that’ll shut out the world but it doesn’t; the bird calls out again and just like that Castiel loses what little composure he’d been trying so hard to maintain for the past week.

  
  
Hot tears well underneath his closed eyelids before finally spilling over, running in burning trails down his face. _Oh Father, what am I supposed to do?_ He sobs and this time it shakes his whole frame as all the grief and betrayal and anger and pain that he’s been suppressing all this time comes bubbling to the surface all at once. Just like the changing temperatures crying had been another foreign sensation to him yet unlike the cold it was something Castiel was horrified to find he was slowly growing used to it. Hardly a night had yet to pass since his expulsion from the bunker that a few tears didn’t find their way to slip through his defenses. It was one of the very few things Castiel found himself grateful for, his expulsion, if only for the reasoning that Dean wasn’t here to witness his unconstrained grief. Castiel could still recall the way the hunter had compared him to a human child all those years ago; that had been bad enough without the human seeing the proof that he had been correct.

 

It hurts, the sheer weight of this human grief and who would have imagined it? Castiel finds it nearly bows him in two, has him drawing in his legs until he’s curled up awkwardly on the bench as the sobs continue to rack his body. There’s a distant part of his mind that continues to point out he’s making a spectacle of himself, bawling out in the open like he is, yet the bigger part of Castiel just doesn’t give a damn. This _hurts_ , this pain, and it has been too long in coming—eons probably—and he’s no longer strong enough to hold back the flood. It bursts from him in heavy, hot sobs that shake him and the bench before rising in terrible echoes towards the sky like he’s some kind of wounded, dying animal.

 

Sadly that’s not too far from the truth now, isn’t it? Ever since Metatron cast him and his brothers and sisters from heaven he’s been dying, little by little just as all his father’s creations do. The reminder is suffocating on top of the grief and for that Castiel finds himself crying all the harder. He’s lost _**everything**_ : his home, his family, his friend, and even his true self.

 

It’s just too, too much and he doesn’t have any clue how he’s supposed to handle it all.


	3. Chapter 3

An eternity passes before the deluge of tears finally begin to slow to a trickle and exhaustion is quick to follow in its wake. It blankets Castiel’s mind in a hazy cocoon, blocking out the rest of the world as he slowly spirals his way back down again. Like a puppet with cut strings he slumps back against the unforgiving wood of the bench, boneless and utterly wiped. His eyes slip closed again and for a long time he simply drifts, tethered to the world only by the dull throbbing in his head that rises and falls in tandem with his heartbeat.

 

He must have drifted off to sleep at some point because the next thing Castiel becomes aware of is the rumbling of his empty stomach jolting him back into full consciousness once more. He doesn’t want to move; the temperature has dropped in the time he was sleeping and the cooler air makes him shiver as he slowly propels his way back into a sitting position. It hurts, his body stiff from the cold and the unforgiving bench. From there he simply remains for a time, squinting out at the sun as it slowly dips beneath the horizon. He’s reluctant to leave though just as to why Castiel finds he does not know. It’s not like he has anywhere else pressing to be—there’s no shelter to be found here for one who has nothing; he’d found that out the hard way in the form of a night watchman who’d came across Castiel sleeping on one of the park’s benches during his first few nights here.

 

It hadn’t been a pretty scene: woken suddenly and still more than half asleep Castiel had taken a swing at the man before his senses had finally kicked back in. It hadn’t been with the angel blade, thankfully, but still. The night had ended with Castiel’s up-close observance of a jail cell and a lot of avoidance of personal questions directed his way. Needless to say, it wasn’t something he wanted to repeat any time soon and when taken in combination with another gusty chill of the bitter wind and his still-rumbling stomach he finally decides it's time for action. With the lethargy of an aged mortal Castiel forces his chilled body back into moving and pushes his way up off the bench.

 

With no set destination in mind Castiel simply wanders along the semi-darkened streets, sticking close to the shadows as he passes by the brightly lit storefronts and scattered about houses. It’s quiet here in this small town, a fact that Castiel is absurdly grateful for after all the long months of fighting. In his haste to put as much distance between himself and Dean following their altercation at the bunker he had been pleased to find someplace quiet to finally rest.

 

Funnily enough, Castiel’s little slice of mortal ‘heaven’ isn’t that far from the bunker. In his haste the former angel hadn’t considered the limits of his newly human body: the need for rest, the need for food and other necessities had inevitably slowed his progress down in one way or another. With no money to his name, and hell he didn’t even have a real name as far as the mortals were concerned (apparently ‘Castiel’ was too weird but the name ‘Steve’ was perfectly acceptable), beyond what he had managed to scavenge together the furthest Castiel had managed to get from Dean and Sam had only been one town away.

 

One small town between himself and the only remaining thing in this world that’s familiar…the thought makes his heart clench in his chest and Castiel finds he must bite back on yet more sobs that want to tear free from his throat. Do all humans feel like this? He can’t help but wonder, do they feel like one wrong thought will set them adrift if they think on it too hard or too long? He isn’t quite sure he wants to know the answer. At any rate his pitiful distance between himself and the Winchesters feels like a stretched band: all at once too close and too far away and like nearly every other odd human convention he has come across, Castiel doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

 

Castiel is certain there are social protocols for this situation—what one is supposed to do when they are betrayed by their closest friend—yet so far he hasn’t learned them. Thankfully he hasn’t needed to as he’s managed to stay under the Winchester’s radar for now. He’s not certain he’s run far enough but then again what is far enough from two hunters who make their living driving across the country?

 


	4. Chapter 4

The air seems to grow colder the further Castiel continues and it isn’t long before he’s nearly hunched over in two, his hands stuffed as far as they possibly can get in the hoodie’s pockets to stave off the chill. “What I wouldn’t give for someplace warm…” Castiel mutters dejectedly, his breath puffing out in white gusts in the cold air.

 

As if summoned by the weight of his words memories of his once-favored spot in heaven begins crowding behind Castiel's eyes. The sunlight, the serenity, the bright colors of the peaceful garden washed over him like a giant tidal wave crashing against the shore, leaving him feeling drenched in the wake. It was just one more reminder on the top of all the rest and he shook his head to diffuse the images, letting the frozen night scenery of reality take its place. There was little good in indulging in the memories; where they once brought comfort now they brought nothing but hurt and frankly Castiel was fairly sure he was hurting enough without adding to it.

 

Huffing to himself Castiel quickened his pace as if he could outrun his inner demons. His stomach still twisted with the remnants of hunger pains though he resolutely chose to ignore it; he'd found that though unpleasant to do so, he could manage to go an entire day on little food. It was hardly a long-time situation although for now it worked well enough to keep him going.

 

Finding shelter was the priority right now; since being chased off the park bench it hadn't been easy to find a place to sleep that felt secure for more than one night at a time much to Castiel's displeasure. The act of sleeping had been annoying enough to get used to without finding someplace that he felt safe enough to do so within. So far the best he can hope for is the back of an alley though the thought of spending yet another night upon the dirty, hard ground brings a grimace of revulsion to his face.

 

Still, it takes Castiel close to another hour of pointless walking in ever-increasing circles before he finally comes to a reluctant halt. He’s beyond cold, exhausted, and is privately relieved to find he no longer gives a damn as to where he lays his head as long as it happens somewhere soon as he shuffles his way down the alley between a bakery, long since closed for the day, and a building that has muffled but still plenty loud thumping music emitting from it. In a way the noise reminds Castiel of the impala and he finds his lips quirking up as he imagines Dean singing along to the tune he can just barely make out through the walls.

 

His amusement doesn’t last long as he surveys his sleeping arrangements for the night: the end of the alleyway is filled with garbage bags that give off an unpleasant aromatic blend even from a few feet away and the ground around them is dirty and cold. On the scale of the places he’s slept since becoming human it isn’t the worst Castiel’s encountered, though it certainly doesn’t appear that it’s going to be the best place either.

 

Despite the late hour there’s still a heady aroma of freshly baked goods still lingering in the air (along with the garbage stench) from the bakery’s back door to which Castiel’s empty stomach rumbles its complaint as he lowers himself down onto a semi-dry spot on the ground. The former angel eyes the simple door, a rectangle of faded white against the aged brick that surrounds it, the temptation to break it down in search of something to fill his stomach strong. It wouldn’t be as easy as it used to be to break down the door though he was confident he could do so and— wait a minute; what was he thinking?!

 

Castiel comes back to himself in a rush, panting and dizzy as he realizes he was seriously contemplating robbing a place just to find food. It’s nothing he would have ever considered before and the thought of it  scares him now: had he really fallen that far? His stomach grumbles another complaint that seems to say 'yes, yes you have' though Castiel forces himself to stay where he is on the ground. _I’ll find something in the morning_. He promises his body, wrapping his arms about him as he tries to get comfortable, turning his head away from the bakery's door as his eyes slipped closed once more.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Morning brings with it a myriad of questions as Castiel swims up from the depths of sleep: Where is he? How did he get here? Why does he feel frozen? What is that awful smell and where is it coming from? Since he fell it’s always like this in the mornings for him; a hazy mess of uncertainty that lasts until he manages to get his eyes open although this morning Castiel is alarmed to find his eyes don’t want to open. His eyelids feel like two-ton weights have been attached and as he lifts an arm to rub at his eyes he’s surprised to find the rest of him feels similar. The weight of his arm hurts but he manages to lift it to his face, the touch of cold skin upon cold skin making him shiver.

 

It had been cold when he had finally drifted off last night but as he wakes up more he realizes he feels close to being frozen solid. It’s a peculiar sensation, and not one Castiel finds he’s fond of, as he frantically rubs at his eyes. When he’s finally managed to warm them up enough to open a slit he’s shocked to find that while he was sleeping the world, himself included, has been coated with a thin layer of icy white coldness. Well, that explains the frozen sensation, he thinks, stunned, as he struggles to wake up further and get up off the ground.

 

It takes longer than it should—the cold makes him sluggish and slow but in the end Castiel manages to haul himself up to lean against the brick wall of one of the buildings as he blinks awareness back into his brain. He yawns and scrubs one hand down over his face as he surveys his sleeping place: the spot he was curled up in is dry compared to the surrounding ground, and he cringes to realize that somewhere during the night he had taken to using one of the trash bags as a pillow. How the mighty have fallen! The voice in his head mocks, and for a moment Castiel thinks of Gabriel because his brother would have been having a field day had he been here, no doubt cracking jokes about how utterly pitiful Castiel’s become.

 

Castiel’s heart clenches as his head thuds back painfully against the rough brick behind him; thinking about Gabriel hurts just as much as Dean and Cas finds he must swallow hard to keep himself under control. He already had one meltdown, there’s little sense in having another one so early in the morning. He huffs out a breathy noise that might be a strangled laugh and pushes himself off the wall. He stumbles a few steps down the alley to relieve himself and after straightening his clothes the best he can Castiel steps from the alley out onto the street.

 

Unlike the night before the streets seem to glisten in the early morning light from the thin sheen of ice that's already melting away into watery slush as Castiel carefully picks his way out onto them. This early there aren't many people out yet, and for that Castiel is extremely grateful. The fewer people about means less staring at him and given what he has been assured of as 'an unkempt appearance' the better Castiel finds it. He isn't seeking to draw attention to himself, although his stomach it seems is not in on the plan with the rest of him. It rumbles loudly, clearly unhappy about not being fed recently and that solves Castiel's dilemma before it can even begin of where to go first.

 

The former angel pauses and takes a moment to dig around in his hoodie pocket before extracting a few crumpled bills and some small coins. While he's still mostly at a loss as to how currency works he thinks he has enough for a cup of coffee which will do fine to fill him up and hopefully warm him up in the process. Satisfied with his decision he stuffs the money back into his pocket, hunches deeper into his hoodie against the chill, and turns in the direction of the bakery.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter coming soon from the lovely Whimsycatcher!

Despite the early hour the bakery is a wonderful haven of warmth and soft lighting that instantly eases some of the tension in Castiel’s shoulders as he steps through the doorway. It smells wonderful too: the intoxicating aroma of fresh baking bread, cakes, and pies smack him in the face as he steps fully inside and all previous hope at keeping his stomach quiet is abruptly lost. The rumbling from earlier starts up again much louder this time, and the few patrons that were already in the shop turn to stare with unconcealed surprise.

 

They aren't subtle about it either. A few women near the front of the line put their heads together and titter away along pointed glances being shot in Castiel's direction and he can't help but flinch away from the disproval he can see in their eyes. He doesn't need his Grace to know their taking in his shabby appearance: the wrinkled, dirty and frayed clothes, the wildness of his hair and the deep stubble on his face. It's laughable, he thinks, for once he was unafraid of anything: had faced down near a millennium of various evil and despicable creatures yet facing such judgement as a human seems so much harder than any of that ever had been. It’s an absurd notion if Castiel had ever heard one, how could the opinion of a handful of mortals be as powerful as judgement from angels?

 

For a moment he simply stands there by the door awkwardly, pointedly determined to ignore the embarrassed flush that’s spreading over his face as he debates on whether or not he should go. It would be appealing to the other humans around him if he did but the loss of the warmth and the potential to get something in his stomach leaves him rooted to the spot. If only Dean could see me now… Castiel thinks bitterly, struck grateful that the man can't. The situation is bad enough as it is without adding in Dean's mocking to the fray and Castiel could have spent the rest of the morning on that vein of thought alone, and probably would have, if it hadn't been for the sudden touch tn his shoulder. Castiel blinks, pulled suddenly out of his thoughts to find himself face to face with the bakery's owner, Adina. "Steve?" She questions, using the human name Castiel had temporarily taken as his own when he first came to this town. "Are you okay?" Her lined, wrinkled face is pulled into a frown as her green eyes regard him somberly from underneath the fringe of faded brown hair that's falling into them.

 

"I--" He falters, completely taken for a loss in surprise to see her not only looking at him worriedly, but close enough to touch him. "I'm fine." He finally manages to push out, hyper aware of the eyes of the other patrons on the two of them as they stand there, and is internally pleased that the words don't come out sounding as forced as they are. "And how are you?" He adds as an afterthought, remembering his manners just in time.

 

Though he's only known her a few weeks, and even that is stretching it since he's only been in here twice since he found his way into this town, Adina doesn't look impressed with either his answer or his belated attempt at manners. Instead of answering she peers up at him like she's trying to see into his mind, the power to do so one Castiel wishes he still possessed, and tightens her grip upon his shoulder. Before he really knows what's happening Castiel finds himself being steered towards the back of the shop where there's a few tables and chairs scattered about. "Come on." The woman urges, her voice soothing in a gentling manner that probably would have sounded condescending from just about anyone else but seems hypnotic coming from her. "Let's see about finding something to warm you up, hmm?"

 

Still shell-shocked, Castiel simply follows. He lets her lead him towards the table nestled in the corner and doesn't protest when she parks him there and tells him to stay. He's still partially embarrassed and unsure, and the continued inner conflict of whether to stay or go isn't helping any. He feels jumpy and nervous, not unlike the first time he was when he visited this shop, and he can't help but squirm restlessly in an effort to ease some of the sensations. He hates this; hates the fact that he's so far fallen that the simple act of making up his mind had become yet another battle in a long line of them. Forget Dean, if the angels could see him now they would surely mock him unto eternity to see what he's become.

 

Needless to say by the time Adina comes back laden with a tray containing the cup of coffee that started this mess in the first place (and Castiel can't help the way the aroma makes his mouth water) and a small plate piled with day old pastries Castiel has taken to scowling his frustrations at the Formica table top in front of him. Seeming nonplussed by his bad attitude she places the tray down in front of Castiel, causing him to look between it and her in surprise. Everything looks delicious, and his stomach grumbles it's full agreement, but he has no way to pay for more than the coffee and he can feel the familiar burn in the back of his eyes as he gets ready to tell her so. "I can't--"

 

\--"Now, none of that." Adina's soft spoken voice cuts over the protest he was about to make. "I found these in the back, they were leftovers destined for the rubbish bin but I think they could do you more good." She smiles at him, her eyes full of warmth as her words. "At the very least maybe they'll help get some meat on your scrawny bones!" With that she turns and heads off into the back again before he can work up another protest, leaving Castiel to stare after her, mouth slightly agape.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the morning passes by surprisingly peacefully. Aside from the looks that are still aimed in his direction every now and then as new people come and leave the shop, Castiel’s pleased to note that nobody bothers him. He finishes his coffee and pastries slowly, taking the time to savor the taste and texture of each item before finally swallowing but finally there’s nothing left but crumbs on his plate and dredges in the bottom of his mug which means he's tarried here long enough.

 

A glance towards the front of the shop shows Adina behind the counter again along with one of the other workers, both swamped from the line of the lunch rush that's starting to come through and Castiel finds he's relived if only for the fact that he can avoid any more kindness on her part. It's not that he's ungrateful, far from it actually, but he dislikes feeling he's warranted such attention when he knows he isn't. He pulls the crumpled money from his pocket once more and counts out what he believes is owed, carefully placing the bills underneath the empty plate on the tray as he gets to his feet. Compared to the fuss of entering the bakery from this morning it's surprisingly easy to slip back out the door thanks to the crowd, and Castiel does so without a backward glance to see if he's missed.

 

After another quick walk around to acclimate himself to the cooler outdoor temperatures once more Castiel finds himself back in the park again upon the same weather-warped wooden bench that he’s privately come to claim as his. It’s still horribly cold out, which seems worse now thanks to his time spent in the warmth of the bakery, and he huddles miserably into his hoodie.

 

There’s still not many people out this time of day, but the few Castiel sees—two young women jogging along the path, an elderly man bundled in layers upon another bench reading a book, and a lone man in a business suit cutting across the park juggling a brief case in one hand and his greasy bagged lunch and coffee cup in the other—are properly dressed for the weather and Castiel can’t help the jolt of surprise that goes through him at the realization that he’s jealous as he watches the lot of them go about their business. _It’s not their fault I’ve fallen so far,_ he tells himself but it does nothing to quench the sudden fire churning in his gut.

 

It would be horribly easy, he thinks, to go over and take the older man’s coat by force, and Castiel wants to recoil from his thoughts. _What’s wrong with me?!_ He thinks, appalled at himself, his breath suddenly coming in harsh pants as he looks around wide-eyed but neither the joggers nor the men appear to notice his distress and continue as if the world isn’t crumbling down around Castiel’s pitiful mortal ears.

 

This just proves it, Castiel thinks as he forces himself back down somewhere approaching calm a few minutes later. Humanness doesn’t suit me, nor will it ever. He may be like the mortals now, may only be ‘just a man’ but for all that he looks and tries to act like them there’s no denying the fact that he’s still markedly alien when it comes to something as simple as emotions. He never dreamed the level that mortals feel simple things like envy and fear and experiencing them now leaves him reeling in the aftermath. It’s terrifying to be caught so thoroughly under the sway of something so simple and for that Castiel finds he just can’t sit idly by and let it happen. He doesn’t have anywhere to go but he can’t sit here any longer. The more he dawdles the more the possibility creeps in his mind that he might truly do something like going over and stealing that man’s coat no matter how repulsed he is by the idea. Fallen angel or not, Castiel still has his pride and he’ll be damned before he lets himself do something so heinous.

 

Instead he finds his way to standing on numb legs and forces himself to walk—in the opposite direction of the man on the bench. His breath fogs before him in the chilly air but Castiel keeps moving. He follows the path the joggers are on, watching them as they run far out ahead of him, his melancholy making him putter along like the tired old being he’s starting to become.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s cresting into evening again when Castiel finally becomes aware of it: a strange tickling sensation at the back of his throat that won’t go away no matter how many times he’s swallowed. If anything, swallowing just seems to make the sensation worse instead of better but for the life of him he has no idea what he’s supposed to do about this newfound annoyance.

 

After the almost-incident in the park he spent the day wandering about aimlessly, not really stopping at one place for any real length of time before continuing on again. There is a small measure of peace to be found in walking, and for the first time Castiel can appreciate why Sam would take off on runs in the mornings when he had the time for it. Now if he could just get rid of the tickle in the back of his throat, Castiel would be tempted to say he was pleased.

 

Sadly, the sensation doesn’t go away as he hoped. Even after another cup of Adina’s coffee, and a few more slipped sweets, it remains and as night truly starts to fall Castiel starts to worry. As he beds down for the night once more in the alleyway behind the bakery, a fact that makes him ashamed now that he’s somewhat befriended the owner, the tickle becomes too much to ignore any longer. Without consciously realizing what he’s doing Castiel pitches forward and begins to cough, a wet hacking noise that echoes off the brick walls around him.

 

It seems to go on forever, one cough after another after another and by the time it finally fades Castiel is panting for breath and utterly horrified. He has no idea what to do about this: there is something terribly wrong with this body, his body, and the realization that he doesn’t have a clue as to what is nothing short of terrifying. What is he supposed to do? He wonders, eyes wide as he looks around the alley as if there’s an answer to be found in the bags of garbage that surround him. _Call Dean!_ Cries the small voice in his mind, and dear Father how tempting the thought is, for surely the hunter would be able to tell Castiel what was wrong with his body…but would he even answer if Castiel called? They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms—Castiel didn’t need to close his eyes to relive the way he had practically ran away from the other man after his banishment, but still. Dean had been (and still was?) his friend which surely meant he would help, right?

 

The truth is Castiel doesn't know if Dean would help or not and there's little point in tying himself up in knots trying to find answers for questions that shouldn't even exist. Yes, Dean may be able to help, but how was Cas supposed to reach out to him? He didn't have a phone to call the man with, nor did he actually remember the numbers to dial if he did, therefore worrying about it was well and truly moot. As much as he didn't want to admit it to himself this strange new thing was just something Castiel was going to have to deal with on his own, just like all the other strange aspects of becoming a human had been. If Dean truly wanted to help him then he wouldn’t have thrown him out of the bunker and into the cold in the first place, right?

 

He forces himself to still, closing his eyes, and struggles to take in several deep, measured breaths. The motions do little to console him, rather setting off another round of coughing instead, but when it finally abated Castiel found he was too tired and dizzy to contemplate things further. He curled up the best he could there on the ground and hoped for sleep.

 

Despite tiredness clinging to him like a second skin, Castiel is frustrated to find that sleep does not come for him easily. He simply can't get comfortable (not that there _is_ a comfortable position in which to sleep on freezing concrete) at once both too hot or too cold. More than once he finds himself caught between wanting to tear his hoodie off to garner some relief or trying his best to burrow into it like the flimsy fabric will somehow magically get warmer. Needless to say, the majority of the night seems eternally long, a feeling which just grows longer and longer as the hours stretch on towards morning.


	9. Chapter 9

At some point during what remained of the night Castiel must have finally drifted off to sleep because the next thing he knows he's being woken to the feel of strange hands grabbing him from out of nowhere. They're everywhere: on his forehead, on his neck, tugging about his shoulders, tugging at the zipper of his hoodie. Still three-quarters the way asleep Castiel slips into fight mode and starts lashing out the best he can even as he struggles to get his eyes open.

 

They don't want to cooperate, feeling heavy and gummed shut and between trying to force the lids to rise and the struggle to get the hands to leave him alone Cas finds he's starting to tire already. "Get off me!" He cries, or tries to, when his struggling fails, yet thanks to all the coughing his voice is just as weak as the rest of him, nothing more than a hoarse croak of sound.

 

He continues to struggle some more but finally misery and lethargy settle over him like old friends as he slumps back and lets the prodding hands have their way with him. It's not like the noises he's made thus far have done anything to deter them any: if anything the hands have become even more busy in their moves as they continue to poke and prod up and down his body. They're unnaturally hot, the hands are, where they encounter his exposed skin and Castiel just barely holds back the yelp of pain that tries to escape his battered throat when one of them comes to rest gently against his forehead. It feels like he's being slowly boiled alive and he wants nothing more to escape the pain but it's so hard to move...so very hard... Before Castiel can muster up the energy to try to force himself away from the source of heat again darkness rises to greet him, and drags him back down with it.

 

After that life passes by in a blur of jumbled pieces of light and sound that Castiel doesn't have the mind to make heads or tails of. He thinks he can hear someone crying nearby and the words "Didn't know...Homeless...Said his name was Steve..." but when he tries to listen closer they fade away as if they were never said in the first place. There's light that flashes in his eyes before it's gone again and then there's the sensation of being moved... Castiel floats above it all, at peace for the first time in as long as he can remember.

 

The strangeness just keeps on coming the next time Castiel becomes a little aware. An annoying beeping somewhere close by fills his ears even as the combined sounds of many human voices rises and falls in the background. There’s an odd smell unlike anything he’s ever encountered and a sharp pinching upon one arm and Castiel can feel the restlessness stirring deep within him because he wants to know what’s going on, wants to know what’s happening to him, yet he’s still too weak to do more than simply wonder about it all.

 

Time passes him by; more voices, different ones this time, come closer yet their words sound like they’re speaking from underwater for all the sense the noise makes to Castiel’s weary mind. There’s a torturous coughing somewhere next to his ear and then the next sensation he's aware of is of being moved again and a cool hand resting gently on his forehead. It feels so nice yet the coldness sinks into his bones, spreading ice down the rest of his body before he's gone again, drifting.

 

Forever and a day seem to pass but finally, finally Castiel feels himself sinking back into his body once more. It’s like coming home again after being away for so long and the weight of it is so shocking Castiel can hardly imagine how he didn’t notice it before. He ignores it for now, however, content to find he actually feels strong enough to open his eyes once more.

 

He does so slowly, half afraid of what he may see when he does, and for the second time in just as many minutes Castiel is shocked to not only find himself in an actual bed but because he's not alone. Slouched down in an uncomfortable position in an equally uncomfortable looking chair, head tipped back and eyes closed in sleep is none other than Dean Winchester himself.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

For a long time Castiel simply stares. Blinks, and stares some more yet the sight of Dean doesn’t change. What is he doing here? How did Dean find him? Where are they even for that matter? Where is Sam at? There are so many questions Castiel doesn’t even know where to begin asking; instead his mouth just works soundlessly as he continues to gape at the sleeping hunter before him. Rationally Castiel knows it hasn’t been that long since he saw Dean last but it feels as though an eon has passed since then. Dean looks it too: even in sleep he looks exhausted and pallid with deep circles around his eyes. Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his bed, wondering if he looks the same way.

 

It’s embarrassing to admit, but it takes a conscious effort on Castiel’s part to finally look away and focus upon the rest of the room. He’s still having trouble believing he's in an actual bed, though he’s not complaining after all those nights spent on the cold hard ground yet it's a bigger surprise to realize he’s in a hospital room. There’s all kinds of strange beeping monitors and machines hooked up to him, and now that he’s aware of it a bone-deep ache settles in his chest, but this is surprisingly familiar territory. Castiel can remember being in a hospital from the early days of the apocalypse and though he doesn’t remember being hurt this time, knowing where he is makes the few jumbled memories start to make sense.

 

“Cas?” Dean’s sleep-roughened voice drags his attention back from his thoughts and just like that there’s no more avoiding the elephant in the room. Internally steeling himself, Castiel turns his head back to meet Dean’s gaze. “Hello Dean.” His voice is still mostly gone, just a bare wisp of what it should be but it must be enough for Dean to hear it because the other man’s shoulders seem to slump, if only slightly, at the sound.

 

A minute passes and then another as they regard one another silently, tension slowly beginning to mount. Surprisingly it’s Dean who cracks first: “Dammit…” He huffs out under his breath, leaning forward in the chair closer to the bed. “Look, Cas, man.” He starts, his face flipping through several different emotions at once before he finally manages to steel himself for what he’s about to say. “You know I didn’t want you to leave, right?” He asks, a surprising note of desperation in his voice.

 

Did he? It’s just one of the many questions Castiel’s found himself wondering about during his time on the streets and for a moment he’s too stunned to say anything. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been dreaming of this moment for some time now (likely from that first night he spent alone) but now that he’s found himself in it he’s at a loss for words. “I…” he hesitates, his gaze dropping from Dean’s. “I understand that Sam must come first.”

 

Out of the corner of one eye he can see the way Dean flinches at his words and the way his face drops into a frown as he brings a hand up to rake through his hair. “It’s not…It’s not just that.” Dean finally confesses, his deep voice unusually somber. “I really screwed things up this time and I don’t know how to fix them. Hell, I don’t even know if I can fix them.”

 

He sounds about as despondent as Castiel’s ever heard him and given their history together that’s saying something. Still, it’s enough to get him to turn back again in concern. “What is it Dean?” He may not have his angelic abilities anymore but surely there’s something Castiel can do to help.

 

For a long moment Dean doesn’t say anything, just regards him with silent, slightly wide eyes before he turns away and shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do.” He finally says, voice rough, talking more to the wall than to Castiel. “It’s my mess so I gotta clean it up.”

 

Castiel wants to throttle him, hell if he thought he could get out of this bed without falling flat on his face, he probably would throttle him. This isn’t the first-time Dean’s stubbornness has come between them, far from it in fact, and he may be nothing more than a man now but Castiel will be damned if he lets this farce continue. “No.” He says, pushing the word out with enough force that it nearly sounds like his voice is supposed to. “I refuse to believe that Dean. I may be of no use to you without the abilities I once possessed but I refuse to let you face this alone.”

 

It’s Dean’s turn to gape, and that he does, though his gaze remains firmly fixed upon the wall as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, and just about the time Castiel is seriously considering trying to unhook himself from the medical equipment, general safety be damned, Dean finally speaks again: “You aren’t useless Cas.” He tells the wall, his jaw flexing in a sign that Castiel’s come to know as frustration. “You’ve never been useless to me.”

 

Castiel can’t believe what he’s hearing—will they never get past surprising one another? He’s starting to feel like he’s in a dream because how long has he waited for Dean to say those words to him? An eternity, at the very least, and he’s surprised (and embarrassed) to find his eyes are burning with unshed tears. “It does not seem that way.” He says quietly, his attention focused on holding the tears at bay because if nothing else he refuses to cry in front of Dean, no matter what.

 

There’s a shaky exhale in response before: “I know.” Comes just as quietly, though with it comes Dean’s attention as he turns back, and Castiel can’t help but take note of the way Dean’s eyes shine in the light. “I’m sorry for that—you gotta believe me.” The hunter says, and the words must be costing him because Dean Winchester doesn’t do emotions, at least not willingly, but he continues to plow on anyway, full steam ahead. “I was an ass, alright? I shouldn’t have made you leave the bunker, the hell with all that other stuff. You almost died and it would have been my fault and…and I don’t want to lose you. Not again.” He huffs and squirms, clearly uncomfortable if the tell-tell redness spreading across his cheeks are any indication. “I want you to come back, with me, to the bunker…If you want too.”

 

He almost died? That’s news to Castiel, though considering what little he does remember it makes sense, but he keeps those thoughts to himself in lieu of catching up to the rest of what Dean’s saying. It feels like his brain has went offline somewhere during the conversation because Dean wants him back? There’s a warmth spreading through his body that has nothing to do with being sick and for the first time since he woke up Castiel smiles. The effect is probably ruined by the tubing up his nose, and frankly who knows what he looks like at this point, but Dean reciprocates the smile nonetheless and that's enough for Cas. “I’d like that very much Dean.” Castiel rasps, and for now that settles it.

 

Going back to the bunker is a start, yes, but things between them aren't fixed and they both know it. As exhaustion swoops in and forces him to settle back against his bed again Castiel realizes he's willing to take this, to start with what he can. If there's one thing to be learned from being cast out alone it's that there's more strength in numbers and if nothing else he needs that now more than ever. Turning his head enough to meet Dean's eyes he takes in the open look of naked relief on the man's face and things that perhaps, just perhaps, this could spell the start of a new beginning between them.


End file.
